The Black Wind
by Mirenately
Summary: What makes one a murder magnet? Why does it seem that Death follows his every step? Or is it the other way around... Maybe Conan knows better than those around him. Part 2 - Vermouth's story - is up!
1. Chapter 1 - Conan

Authors note: This fic is just a theory, a crossoverish theory. Though I'll let you guess the second fandom which role was mostly to bring me inspiration to write this. In English, nonetheless.

Disclaimer: I do not own Detective Conan and anything related to it. Except this fic, that is.

**The black wind**

A proper detective shouldn't believe in supernatural. A detective genius must consider every option, no matter how improbable one may seem. Even if it defies common sense. At least, at first sight.

To Kudo Shinichi scientific explanation was always a primary choice which never needed additional plunge into the world of superstitions. Except for the times when those legend and tales held the clues to culprit's behavior. Nevertheless, it was so easy to label all those supernatural theories inconsistent and cross them out altogether. And yet… Yet he couldn't explain an ability of his own.

He once told Ran that detectives are like sharks that can smell blood from a huge distance. They are fearsome predators that follow their prey – a criminal – till they sink their sharp teeth into warm flesh. For him it was most true and yet different at the same time.

People called him a murder magnet as death seemed to follow his steps. Oh, how wrong they were! It was clearly the other way around. He was a wolf out for blood, involuntary, subconsciously attracted to the source – to the wounded one or, in his case, to the one whose death was nearing. Sometimes he even thought that he was jus a small, pathetic moth, drawn to a flame by instinct that he would never comprehend.

He first noticed at the age of seven, no more than eight, perhaps… A strange voice bursting into his thoughts like a gust of wind. The wind with black wings, because it always announced that someone nearby was going to leave the world of living. At first he considered it to be just his imagination playing games with him. Being a son of the famous consulting detective writer could do that to you. But since then it's only become worse.

Right before the incident in Tropical Land the wind grew louder, its' voice much clearer than he's ever heard. He could almost distinguish some words of a strange song, so achingly sad that each note stung painfully in his heart. And he could almost swear that the same voice asked – no, ordered – him to stay alive.

So now – no matter where he was and what he was doing – he could hear soft whispers guiding him through the crowd. "Her fate is decided, little meitantei… poor soul… Look, look, there is the one! Watch closely, he won't see the dawn… Her future is dark but you can change it… Hurry, hurry, Shinichi… Don't you see that the thread is almost cut…"

He tried to fight it, but the wind was too strong. It toyed with him, tangling him in the threads of Fate like a venomous spider, playing with his web. As if Shinichi was just a doll, a marionette with an illusion of free will provided by the thinnest cords and sheer skill of a puppet master. And so he had no choice but to go with the flow, paying keen attention to all wind's whispers and hints and hoping to win the futile race against Death itself.

Haibara could feel something too, but in a different way. She sensed some sort of residual charge left by the wind's mourning for the victims of Black Organization. Vermouth was the worst: black wind coiled around her body like a giant poisonous snake. She had it well hidden, though, under all her masks and disguises. As if she could hear it too, but has chosen the different side to fight for.

Sometimes he wondered whether his and Ai's strange ability was the key to their survival. As if someone or something didn't want to lose his favorite toys or pawns. Improbable… Yet there is only one truth… Even if it seemingly defies common sense.

So there he was: spending another day with Detective Boys. They were his charge, his responsibility, even his safe haven sometimes (though he didn't want to admit it even to himself). With the he could free himself of Conan and be Shinichi. Just for a while.

He hoped that nothing would happen this very day. He strived for a moment of peace, just for once, though he already knew that such thing was not possible. Not for him, not anymore. As if something or someone defied him the right to be left alone and untouched. As if someone or something considered him his property after saving his life.

He shivered as the feeling he's now become all too familiar with flooded his senses. Gentle pull of the invisible strings, subtle directions brought to him by barely distinguishable whispers. He turned his head, wondering, silently asking and internally pleading the cogs of Fate to stop.

His eyes scanned the crowd. Too many people, too many possible victims. "Not him, not her… Can't you see him? There… To the left… Can't you guess, little meitantei?" He concentrated on the group of three young men. One of them. It had to be one of them.

\- What's wrong, Kudo-kun? – he heard Haibara asking in concern.

\- Nothing… It's nothing.

He was ready to run, to shout a warning. But that would be useless, he knew. No one would believe a child, especially when he blabbers about someone's future death. At such moments he felt so useless, so pathetic. What was the point of his strange ability if he couldn't prevent what was going to occur?!

So he strolled after Detective Boys, his eyes never leaving three young men.

The black wind howled… One of them would shortly perish.


	2. Chapter 2 - Vermouth

Author's note: Ok, this damn part 2 took me too long to write (pun intended). And it turned out a bit more cross-overish than the first one (well, you have Vermouth to blame for that). Yet it is still for you to guess which is the second fandom.

A huge thanks to all the reviewers: LittleFan, LLL, Orange04, James Birdsong, Detective Cat, gabiey, Adela C. Brandon, princessofthedeadsheep and unnamed guest! Guys, I really appreciate that:).

Black wind. Part 2: Vermouth.

After a bottle of vine she finally felt something at the very corner of her analytical mind. A subtle trace of euphoria that had almost instantly degraded to nothing. One of the most frustrating drawbacks of her condition: not being able to get drunk. At all. Not that her body had ever allowed that small luxury.

Another glass and she lit a cigarette. Third or, maybe, fourth for the day. Huge panoramic windows of her apartment were opened to the fullest so that fresh air could blow away the smell of tobacco smoke that she hated to the very bottom of her soul. She always found some sort of twisted pleasure in toying with this little contradiction of habits and tastes. A living contradiction – a fitting term for a creature that got lost in its' own masks and lies so long ago that sometimes it couldn't distinguish its' very core.

She smiled bitterly as a subtle song of the Black Wind entered her mind. Her old friend and partner, old annoyance and constant reminder of what she truly is… or was for that matter. The only one… the only thing that knew her real name. Funny… It suddenly seemed very appropriate to her to be remembered only by the time itself.

She turned her head to look in the mirror, making her own tired eyes glare back at her. How foolish could she be… How could she strive for immortality so much?! It wasn't worth it, had never been. And yet… Every person she held dear had paid greatly for her egoistic wish. The price was their blood, their happiness and her loneliness. Eternal loneliness destined to last until the end of time.

A seemingly long forgotten (but always drifting near the surface) pain stirred awake once again, drilling its' teeth through her flesh and soul. It was a matter of habit to push it back where it couldn't do any harm. All that she needed was a specific item to focus on. And several seconds to pull it out from its' hiding place.

She played with the silver chain for a second, enjoying the feeling of cool metal against her skin. Unwanted memory raised its' head, reminding her that her family crest had been once engraved on every link. Now she couldn't either see or feel it anymore. Just smooth cold silver. Like a mask with no face underneath.

Her phone blipped indicating an incoming message. Bourbon. He wanted to talk to her, she recalled. Probably something about the case of Akai Shuichi, her second (or first – if you put them in chronological order) Silver Bullet. Dead and alive at the same time like a Schrodinger cat.

Oh, she knew Kir's little secret. Not that she was ever going to reveal it to the whole Organization or to the Boss in particular. It was entirely their problem that they were outsmarted by her knight currently disguised as an insignificant pawn.

She shook her head. Such thoughts had always been a sure sign of her weariness. She desperately needed rest. From everyone and everything. For some time if forever was not an option.

Her protégé arrived in half an hour. Worried, disheveled and still a bit shaken from the incident on the Bell Tree Express. Oh, she dared to admit that her little knight's plan was on the verge of genius brilliance. Even if she had to temporarily give up on Sherry, again.

She could say that their talk was going to be… fruitless (for the lack of better word). She had no intention of bringing to the light some details of their not so successful operation. For Bourbon's sake too. As they say: "The less you know, the better you sleep". And yet she generously offered him a cup of coffee and took a sit in front of him.

As she went on with that little game of words and double meanings, she absentmindedly played with her locket's chain. A matter of habit, perhaps. But at that moment it brought some unfortunate consequences.

For a second she lost her concentration. It was enough for her treasure to slip out of her hold. The locket fell on her neat coffee table with a painfully loud clang, halfway opening in the process. At a questioning look from her protégé she just waved her hand dismissively. "If my fate is to be destroyed – so be it…" - a thought was bitter like a glass of vine mixed with cheap poison.

Bourbon's fingers traced along the fine features of a sixteen year old girl, so innocent, so seemingly fragile. "An angel from the sky" one could say about her. And that wouldn't be too far from truth.

"Somehow, she reminds me of you."

"Oh…" - she lit a cigarette and took a long measured drag, not even looking in young man's direction. – "I've been told that my daughter was nearly a splitting image of myself. Just like my son," – she felt a questioning gaze and let a shadow of a smile touch her lips before giving an explanation. – "On the second half of the locket."

She watched young detective study the other portrait, the one belonging to a boy with all-too-wise emerald-green eyes. Too keen, too knowing for a little kid. She could remember those eyes flaring with hatred directed at her. Hatred that was darker than the wings of the Black Wind.

"So serious, just like Conan-kun."

She heard a subtle trace of admiration in his voice. Interesting reaction. Maybe she could use that as one of her trump cards. Just maybe.

"Not quite," - she parried with a subtle smile. She wouldn't tell him that her son, despite his looks, was just a boy, not a de-aged adult. Just a boy with a dreadful ability to predict deaths of those around him.

"One could probably trace your identity with that," - Bourbon had that thoughtful, calculating look of a detective in action.

"Don't bother," - Her smile grew, nearly turning into Cheshire grin, even though her eyes remained cold as ice. – "You'll never find them or discover any connection we had. You are going to fail… just like me…"

She could see sincere doubt on his face, but she knew that both of her children were lost to her, forever. Oh, how she wanted to reach them, to tell them she was sorry for all the wrongs she did, for all the suffering she inflicted. To hold them once more.

She turned away from Bourbon, hiding her emotions. She knew she was trembling if slightly. Weakness was an unaffordable luxury for her. Something that she had to hide for the simple sake of… survival. One more contradiction in her life.

Uncomfortable silence stretched far too long for her tastes. But she was unable to break it. So, in the end, it was he who showed her mercy.

"Sometimes I wonder which side you are on, Vermouth. Or what it is that you really want," - he murmured softly over his cup, taking a careful sip.

She stood up and walked to the window. It had been a long time since she felt so vulnerable. And she despised herself for that. And yet…

"Let me tell you a story," - she started reluctantly. - "Once upon a time there was a queen. She had it all: power, beauty, wonderful children and admiration of her people. Her kingdom could be called an Utopia. And yet… There was one thing that she couldn't get. Immortality. Quite unfortunately she became obsessed with it. You see, she was the one blessed (or maybe cursed) with an ability to hear the voice of time itself." – She laughed bitterly, almost sounding like a crow. – "A pity though… that time has never been a pleasant interlocutor. It mostly spoke of deaths that were yet to come. And she was afraid that one day… it would tell of her own."

She let that sink in. Just a puny idea that could – with a help of imagination - turn into in a vivid nightmare.

"So, did she…" - he didn't finish his question but it was pretty obvious.

"Oh, yes, she got it. But for a price. Her kingdom, her people, her powers and her children were gone because of her. She became immortal but lost everything. Everything and everyone," - she knew of sudden bitterness in her voice. – "And so she was left alone. Ever removed from the circle of life. With only the howling of the Black Wind to keep her company through the whole eternity. "

She fell silent, once again. Her thoughts far away, somewhere above the clouds or, maybe, deep in the labyrinth of time.

"And what's the moral? 'Some dreams should be left unrealized?' or 'Don't try to play God?' or maybe-"

"There is none," - she finally looked at Bourbon making him wonder whether her eyes had always been green like the finest emeralds shining from within with immense power that no human could ever comprehend.

Flabbergasted, he didn't even react at his own phone ringing. Well, for a several seconds at least. A call from that owner of Poirot café as she guessed from his expression. Nothing of importance. Except for one little detail.

"The Black wind howls…" - she whispered, feeling so very familiar touch of darkness with all the fibers of her soul that was too old for her youthful body. - "If I were you, I'd take a bus instead of a taxi."

"Is it a threat?"

He was nervous and that was definitely her fault. He was afraid of her. Of her possible knowledge. It seemed like the tables had been turned and it was her cue to make a move, to strike him down or to let him live.

"Just a warning. You see, I don't want to lose such a promising card as you due to an unfortunate accident."

There. Said. Avoided. Even her words were enough to slightly shift the course of time. Not that she was going to tell that to Bourbon. The traffic accident would happen, yet, he wouldn't be involved. A small miracle, indeed.

After he left her apartment suddenly felt empty. Empty and cold, devoid of all life. With only wind keeping her company.

"There is no moral," - she repeated addressing no one at all. Just letting her words get blown away with smoke, - "because this story is yet to end."

She caressed her barely visible reflection on the window glass. And for a blink of an eye she saw a woman in a flowing regal gown. A crown on her head and everlasting flames of power in her hands. One more blink and there was nothing. Just a shell.

"And then the Queen decided that no one deserved her fate. Even if it meant staying alone till the very end. She sought the ones who tried to gain immortality and ruined their plans either openly or subtly. For the best, she told herself. For their own good. But ironically… It appeared that she was driven by a single egoistic wish. To end her existence… To find the one who could hear… Like her… And hope that time will finally forgive her and tell him how…"

She sighed, smiling a bit at her foolishness. There was no way that he would do that. No chance. And yet she was the last one to lose hope.

"Don't let that old hag down, Cool Guy," – she whispered, – "I'm still counting on you."


End file.
